Uncertain Steps
by templeg
Summary: Remus/Sirius Regency!AU. Shameless fluff with a sprinkling of angst.


Remus is in Sirius's bedroom.

This is not, strictly speaking, the done thing; but outside of polite society, when there are no Ladies about to impress, Sirius's reasoning is generally that he's the heir and he can do as he pleases. Wealthy young gentlemen, especially such intimate friends as they are, are perfectly within their rights to while away dull afternoons in each other's company. What difference does it make what room they do it in?

Perhaps, if one were speaking in the very _strictest _of terms, if, for example, one were, like Sirius's mother, modelling one's behaviour after that suggested by Hopkirk's Etiquette and Deportment, it might not be considered entirely seemly for said young gentlemen to be slouched against one another on the same bed, nor might Hopkirk approve of the extremely distracting way Sirius is rubbing his thumb back and forth across Remus's thigh. Remus usually prides himself on his manners. It's one of the few things about him Sirius's mother begrudgingly approves of. At this moment, however, he feels confident that if he were to be confronted with the cutlery set out before him at a formal dinner, he wouldn't be able to tell a soup spoon from a fish fork. It's oddly freeing.

'Lady Avery is having a ball on Wednesday'. Sirius has his chin propped on Remus's shoulder; his breath tickles Remus's ear. 'Will you come? I can't stand many more balls. Perhaps it's all a ploy on Mother's part to drive me insane so that Regulus can inherit instead of me.'

Remus huffs. 'Do I have a choice?' Sirius nuzzles his neck. Somehow he can tell that Sirius is smirking even without seeing him; almost a tickling sensation just behind his ear. Then Sirius's lips graze his neck. He stiffens, and has to fight the urge to pull away. It's not that he doesn't want Sirius. Of all the lies he's ever tried to make himself believe, that was the one that he never could. It's a defense mechanism. Sirius's touch means danger, and he still hasn't quite taught himself to believe that they can ever truly be alone. Instead, he turns to see Sirius glancing up at him through thick lashes, eyes sparkling, lashes askew.

'Sirius-' he begins, but Sirius slides his hand just an inch or so higher up his thigh and he loses his train of thought. He starts again. 'I can't dance.'

'You can dance', Sirius huffs. 'Everyone can dance.' This is true, at least in their social circle. It isn't that he _can't _dance. It's that he _hates_ to dance, and he's terrible at dancing, and when he does he feels wildly guilty for asking whichever poor girl he happens to be dancing with, and really it isn't their fault, they didn't know, and even if they did none of them are allowed to say _no, I don't think I shall dance with you, you dance like a giraffe with four wooden legs_, and he knows there are any number of much less incompetent and probably better-looking young gentlemen in the room they would infinitely prefer to dance with. So would he, for that matter. He knows the steps, having had them drilled into his head from the age of twelve (step, close, step, hop, brief moment to contemplate seizing partner's fashionable turban and strangling himself with it, lift, close, step, if he steers her close enough to that candelabra maybe he can set himself on fire and make it look like an accident, repeat). He's just never managed to do them without looking as if he has something large and splintery lodged up his backside.

Sirius, of course, dances beautifully, which is how he does everything. His conversation is rivalled by no-one, he's unfairly good at whist, and he plays the spinet better than any accomplished young lady Remus knows. Watching his strong, elegant hands skim over the keys, the way the tendons move underneath his skin, Remus has more than once had cause to lament the fact that fashion calls for breeches to be quite so revealingly tight. The last time Sirius performed in public, Remus spent a good quarter of an hour holding a conversation with General Bulstrode from behind a strategically positioned potted plant. He suspects that this may be partly responsible for his reputation for eccentricity.

Only Remus can see the anger that so often shines just beneath Sirius's impeccably charming façade. Only Remus notices when he whirls the young woman in his arms just slightly too fast, when his laugh teeters on the verge of mania, when his whispered compliments in female ears seem to hold more threat than promise. But then, it is only Remus who he finds afterwards in some dark corner, only Remus he kisses with a heat that is both fury and desire. And it is only Remus who watches him so closely.

Sirius's mouth curls into a grin. Remus knows that grin. It never bodes well. He unfolds himself from the bed, jumping to his feet and standing before Remus with a hand extended. 'Come on.'

'Oh, no', says Remus, wriggling backwards across the bed. 'No, no, no-' Sirius grabs his hand and yanks hard, bringing him lurching to his feet. 'Come on, Remus. Back straight, head up.'

'This is a terrible idea', says Remus. Sirius ignores him and bows deep, holding out his hand. 'Madam', he starts, voice filled with suppressed laughter. 'May I have this dance?'

Remus opens his mouth to say _no, you may not_, or something equally rude- after all, this is not a ballroom, and he is no well-mannered young lady under the watchful gaze of her mother- but Sirius's sheepish, hopeful grin weakens his resolve. 'If you must', he says flatly, but he can't help but smile.

'The chasse step', Sirius murmurs, and never has a word that usually fills Remus with so much dread sounded so seductive. He swallows, hard, and places his fingers lightly in Sirius's outstretched hand. 'Right foot first. Right-close-right, right-close-right, then left-close-left, left-close-left.' He steers them across the room. Sirius's feet seem to move almost without any conscious thought, so seamlessly it's almost impossible to see what he's doing. Remus manages to follow him with minimal stumbling- after all, he's known this step almost as long as Sirius has. It's not especially elegant, not how he does it, but it is easy, and he allows himself to get lost in the graceful angle of Sirius's neck, how the way he's holding his head pulls the tendons in his throat tight above his cravat. So lost, in fact, that he forgets all about the pas jetté assemblé, and when Sirius does it their feet tangle and they go down like a ton of bricks.

Remus's backside is sure to bruise, but Sirius is on top of him, and that takes precedence. Both of them are breathing hard. Sirius is laughing. 'I do beg your pardon, madam, this is most improper. Whatever would your mother say?' His hand on Remus's stomach slips downwards, and Remus lets out a squeak which he disguises none-too-successfully as a cough. He curls his hand around the back of Sirius's neck and kisses him, long and slow, as Sirius's hair tickles his face.


End file.
